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Reviewing  Childhood  Days 
at  75 


BY 

JAMES  HUTCHISON\KERR 


COLORADO  SPRINGS 
1912 


CAJORI 


NOTE 

This  Review  of  Childhood  Days  was  written 
without  one  thought  of  its  ever  being  published. 
But  showing  it  to  a  few  friends,  they  insisted,  and 
insisted,  whether  wisely  or  not,  that  I  publish  it, 
as  showing  a  happy  home,  o'er  sixty  years  ago.  I 
disclaim  all  pretense  of  its  being  anything  more 
than  a  memory  love-recall,  for  the  private  use  of 
a  beloved  brother. 

JAMES  HUTCHISON  KERR. 


"PS 
352.1 
Reviewing  Childhood  Days 

at  75 


GLOCKNER  SANATORIUM, 

COLORADO  SPRINGS,  COLO., 

August  30,  1912. 

Dear  Brother  George, 

Today  'tis  true — 

I'm  seventy-five,  and  still  years  due. 
"I  took  a  thocht  no  lang  sin  syne 
Aboot  a  place  we  baith  ken  fine," 
Where  happy  early  years  we  spent 
And  where  we  lived  in  wild  content. 
A  country  home  on  rocky  hill, 
Not  far  above  McHenry's  mill, 
In  sight  of  waters  sweet  and  clare 
In  foaming  haste  to  ocean  fair; 
In  sight  of  Nebo's  stony  height, 
Where  many  a  tribe  in  fortune's  flight 
Took  counsel  of  the  lesser  clans 
And  paved  the  way  for  grander  plans. 
In  sight  of  ridge,  across  the  dam 
Which  held  its  waters  strong  and  calm, 
Where  chestnut,  oak  and  laurel  grew, 
And  choicest  huckleberries,  too, 
With  thirty  thousand  ticks  abush, 
More  brave  than  kin  of  Hindu  Kush. 
And  then  there  was,  just  east  of  road, 
A  pasture  fair,  with  foxy  grapes 
And  chicken  grapes,  as  Georgie  knew; 
Blackberries  for  the  picker  brave, 
Raspberries  in  abundance,  too. 
On  west  of  road  an  orchard  lay, 
With  rambos,  russets,  romanites, 
Pears,  quinces,  other  fruits. 
Beyond  the  orchard  other  fields, 
Where  grew  the  wheat,  the  corn,  the  oats, 
Potatoes,  beans  and  peas  and  sich, 
And  clover  red  and  timothy, 
Which  filled  the  barn,  in  autumn  time, 
For  horses,  cattle,  sheep  and  hogs, 
On  cold  and  stormy  winter  days. 
You  do  remember,  Georgie,  well, 


645569 


How  oft  we  pickt  the  growing  stones 

And  wondered  how  they  grew  and  thrived ; 

Of  carrying  drink  to  harvest  field, 

And  how  you  broke  the  water  jug 

And  told  your  father  "not  to  grieve, 

For,  tho  the  bottom's  out,  the  spout 

And  handle  sure  are  good  and  strong." 

You  well  remember,  Georgie  boy, 

When  measles  thought  to  curb  your  youth, 

And  how  you  sought  relief  and  cure 

Out  near  the  end  of  blacky's  tail, 

Through  fields  of  knee-high,  dew-wet  grass, 

With  speed  so  fast  you  touched  the  ground 

By  leaps  and  bounds.    When  chided,  said : 

"My  mother  dear,  it  was  not  fast." 

And  mother  said:     "Why,  Georgie  dear, 

Where  are  your  clothes?"    "This  little  shirt 

Was  all  I  had.    It  was  too  short 

For  wetting.    Feel  it,  mother.    It  is  dry." 

Now,  Georgie  boy,  you  well  recall 

The  day  you  bravely  fought  the  beast, 

Near  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  fell, 

Heart-crushed  and  sorely  rent  with  pain — 

So  much  that  far  and  near  you  made 

The  welkin  ring  with  horrid  yells 

Which  hastened  mother  to  inquire : 

"Oh,  what  has  hurt  our  Georgie  dear?" 

To  which  you  bravely  did  reply: 

"Your  Georgie  dear  the  goosie  kicked." 

And,  Georgie,  you  remember,  too, 

When  sent  to  grandpapa's  in  haste 

And  charged  to  go  not  in  the  water ; 

And  when  on  dot  you  did  return, 

Your  mother  said :    "Why,  Georgie  dear ! 

Ah,  shame !    You  did  go  in  to  swim." 

"Why,  mother  dear,  just  feel  my  hair. 

How  can  you  make  that  cruel  charge?" 

"Because  your  shirt  is  wrong  side  out." 

I  oft  go  'round  the  grand  old  lawn, 

Among  the  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  vines, 

And  see,  it  seems,  the  same  old  roses 

And  dahlias,  honeysuckles,  rich 

In  scent  and  food  for  humming  birds, 

Just  as  o'er  sixty  years  ago. 

I  oft  go  through  the  great  brick  house 

And  walk  her  porches  beautiful, 


On  which  we  used  to  walk  and  run ; 
And  mark  the  places  where  we  sat 
On  this  and  that  occasion,  when, 
With  neighbors,  kin  and  maidens  fair, 
We  sang  our  songs  and  played  our  games, 
And  talked  of  trifles,  then  quite  pleasing. 
But  when  I  ask  where  th'  neighbors  are? 
And  kin  and  maidens  fair  ?    Alas ! 
I'm  told  some  sleep  in  London  town, 
Some  sleep  beneath  cold  slabs  at  Oxford. 
In  every  state  a  chosen  few 
Have  cast  their  waiting  lot  of  life, 
While  others  lie  beneath  the  flags — 
The  nation's  flags  at  Arlington, 
Or  loyal  flags  of  Gettysburg. 
Enough.    Enough.    Just  let  me  live 
The  younger  years,  when  we  were  boys — 
When  Lizzie  kist  us  all  good-night, 
And  bade  us  say  our  prayers  in  peace, 
That  Sabbath  morn  we  might  awake 
As  children  free  to  serve  our  God, 
In  family  worship,  and  at  church, 
Then  held  among  the  chestnut  sprouts, 
Where  our  fathers  long  had  worshiped. 
No  cushions  then  to  soften  seats, 
And  backs  were  high  to  keep  us  in. 
A  little  ten-plate  stove  for  fire 
Sat  in  the  rear  (I  know  not  why, 
For  seldom  did  it  send  us  heat). 
Our  heat  came  from  the  pulpit  height, 
As  soon  the  preacher  raised  the  lid 
And  made  us  smell  the  surplus  gas, 
And  told  us  what  he  saw  below. 
Well,  Lizzie  was  for  you  and  me 
And  Sadie,  ever  true  and  kind. 
'Twas  she  who  drest  you  year  by  year, 
And  taught  you  "Now-I-lay-me"  prayer; 
Received  your  arms  around  her  neck 
And  blest  you  with  her  kisses  royal. 
Your  name  was  only  Georgie  then ; 
But  mother  called  you  "Georgie  dear." 
Most  happy  years  indeed  were  those, 
When  Sadie  came  and  took  our  arms, 
A  princess,  stately,  bright  and  fair, 
With  cheeks  the  angels  kist  with  pride, 
With  eyes  that  spoke  in  terms  of  love, 
That  purified  the  life  for  all, 


Enriched  the  world,  endowed  her  home 
With  songs  and  cheer  and  royal  hope 
That  often  made  her  brother's  hearts 
To  burn  with  holy  love  and  thought. 

Then,  in  the  years,  we  can't  forget 

When  Susie  sat  upon  our  laps 

And  talked  of  chickens,  geese  and  ducks, 

Repeated  words  most  musical, 

And  sang  such  songs  as  she  could  sing, 

To  hypnotize  us  into  sleep. 

How  oft  she  placed  her  tiny  hands 

Upon  our  eyes,  and  placed  a  kiss 

Upon  our  lips  and  made  us  say : 

"My  mother  kist  me.    It  was  sweet" ! 

How  oft  she  curled  our  hair  and  said : 

"I  wish  that  mine  were  curly,  too" ! 

But  soon  as  father  came,  her  game 

With  us  was  ended  with  a  leap; 

Into  her  father's  bidding  arms, 

Who  pressed  his  kindly  lips  on  hers 

And  called  her  "darling  Sweetest-sweet." 

Few  fathers  were  more  kind  than  ours, 

And  few  were  more  correct  in  things 

They  knew.    He  gave  me  all  the  names, 

Characteristics,  foods  and  life 

Of  trees  and  plants  and  weeds  and  grasses, 

Of  stones  and  rocks  and  soils  and  waters, 

And  insects,  birds  and  animals 

Of  southeast  Pennsylvania. 

And  never  have  I  proved  him  wrong. 

And  yet  his  education  ended 

With  preparation  for  West  Point; 

As  eight  months  typhoid  fever  closed 

The  door  of  higher  learning  hope, 

And  forced  upon  him  out-door  life, 

Which  brought  him  health  and  slavish  work- 

A  work  his  sons  refused,  with  thanks. 

His  strictness  was  a  care  in  love — 

The  burdens  of  a  bigot  creed — 

Delusions  of  a  narrow  age. 

But  "what  is  home  without  a  mother?" 

For  us,  a  body,  less  the  soul. 

Ours  kist  away  our  little  ills; 

Ours  dried  our  tears,  when  rivers  flowed; 


Ours  soothed  our  hearts,  when  they  were  broken ; 

Ours  cared  for  us,  when  ills  befell; 

Ours  taught  us  how  to  help  ourselves, 

Assured  us  life  was  more  than  meat 

And  drink,  more  than  things  bought  with  gold; 

Ours  led  us  first  to  Father  God, 

Proclaimed  the  richness  of  the  Christ; 

Ours  said,  our  love  of  self  is  measure 

Of  love  to  neighbor — fellowmen; 

Ours  outlined  lives  of  service,  rich 

In  love  and  hope  and  peace  with  God, 

And  joys  that  come  of  duty  done, 

In  lifting  up  the  fainting  hearts, 

Where  hopes  are  crushed,  where  goods  are  gone ; 

Ours  led  us  into  nature's  fields, 

Where  stand  the  \noblest  shops  of  God, 

In  which  creation's  work  is  ever 

In  process  of  a  new  becoming. 

The  gold  is  in  the  making  here, 

And  there  the  silver,  iron  and  tin 

And  all  the  radium  series. 

'Tis  surely  true,  my  brother  George, 

Whate'er  we  are  in  life  and  thought, 

We  owe  to  mother's  love  and  word. 

A  thousand  thoughts  rush  into  mind, 

Of  the  golden,  younger,  blessed  years. 

"  'Twas  unco  simple  country  joys, 

That  brocht  sic  pleasure  to  us  boys. 

Tho  maybe  memory  has  its  share 

In  making  things  all  bright  and  fair. 

The  sorrows  of  our  youth  get  faint, 

While  joys  in  radiant  hues  we  paint." 

So,  ere  concluding,  all  together 
We  send  our  love  to  Sister  Carrie, 
And  Minnie  love  and  husband,  too, 
And  Sue,  and  Hugh,  and  Eleanore, 
And  Kay  and  all  the  other  kin. 
Just  tell  them  we  in  health  are  blest, 
According  to  our  needs  and  years. 
Just  say  the  world's  a  world  of  beauty, 
E'er  calling  us  to  work  and  duty. 
We  hope  in  peace  and  joy  to  live 
With  men  our  fellows  and  with  God. 
Don't  think,  my  brother,  'cause  I  spoke 
Of  comic  scenes  that  I  forgot 
Your  noble,  hopeful,  youthful  traits, 


Your  loyal  deeds,  your  loving  ways. 
For  from  your  earliest  thoughtful  hours 
You  gave  the  world  a  living  pledge — 
"I'll  be  an  honest,  noble  man." 
And  with  that  pledge,  at  seventy-one 
Your  record's  fixed,  your  honor's  safe. 
Your  worthy  life  may  well  bespeak 
A  long  and  happy  eveningtide. 

In  years  of  which  these  stories  tell, 
Our  father,  mother,  sisters,  all, 
In  heart  beat  daily  true  with  ours. 
So  true  we  never  took  their  measure, 
Or  thought  of  golden  privileges, 
Or  thought  of  coming  empty  chairs. 
Our  days  and  years  were  then  to  spend. 
They  often  seemed  so  long  and  dreary — 
We  wished  for  days  when  we'd  be  men. 
But  now  the  days  and  years  have  fled, 
And  days  remaining  fast  are  fleeing. 
Our  lives  are  now  at  eveningtide. 
How  beautiful  the  passing  hours ! 
The  clouds  are  changing  fast  their  forms 
And  taking  on  a  splendor  royal, 
Revealing  hope's  realities, 
Of  grander  lives,  beyond,  beyond. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

JAMES  HUTCHISON  KERR. 

To  George  Kerr,  M.  D.,  A.  M.,  Ph.  D. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


OF  CALIFORMA  LIBRARY 
T.  .  Los  Angeles 

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